


this is not harmless/you are not breathing

by grilledhaifisch



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, crocodile dad moments, dumb jokes, laws like 16, real mental eelness hours, wow doflamingo really is a piece of shit huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grilledhaifisch/pseuds/grilledhaifisch
Summary: It’s a week after.Law still hasn’t left his room.-An attempt at (step-)father-son bonding is made after a different, more drastic kind of attempt.
Relationships: Crocodile & Trafalgar D. Water Law, Crocodile/Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante, Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante & Trafalgar D. Water Law, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	this is not harmless/you are not breathing

**Author's Note:**

> hullo one piece has me by the teeth once more. id like to thank k-k-armadillo on tumblr for activating my braincell and making me write this, as i do all my oneshot works, in the span of a night and a morning/afternoon only interrupted by sleep. woo hyperfixation

It’s a week after. 

Law still hasn’t left his room. 

Cora’s been bringing him food every so often, trying not to sink into the horrid, despicable silence that’s been poisoning the stagnant air, smiles tense and quick to fall when Law barely acknowledges his attempts at conversation. He leaves the plates of whatever he’s decided to make that day on the bedside tabletop—which Law is grateful for, really, because he _does_ eventually eat some of it, every now and then. Not really because he’s hungry—he just realizes, vaguely, as stupid as it is after the shit he pulled, that he needs to eat to stay alive and kicking. He can’t very well go die here in his room. Wouldn’t want Cora to slip while trying to drag his corpse out of the bed and hurting himself on the corner of the table, would he now.

This time, the small knock at his door sounds like the bang of the gavel, sentencing him to one more day of being a fucking disappointment. He turns in his bed, the thought of having to see his dad worried closing up his throat faster than any noose would have. The sound of the door opening and Cora’s soft steps into the room aren’t completely drowned by his duvet, not for lack of effort. There’s a clink of a plate against wood, and then a pause, filled by the creak of a floorboard right by the bed. 

Slowly, a weight settles at the foot of the bed. 

Cora stays there for a while, the silence no longer pressing down on Law’s chest like an anvil, though it’s not quite comfortable, either. 

Then he leaves again, the same floorboard creaking in the exact same cadence as he does.

Law thinks he should feel grateful. Or content, maybe. Or something like loss, for the missing weight on the bed. He thinks all this, but all he feels is the silence seeping into his bones again.

He eats, barely.

He must fall asleep at some point, because he wakes up looking into the glare of the afternoon sun in his eyes. It’s odd, he thinks, in that weird disconnected way, but Cora hasn’t gone ahead and locked the windows entirely. Maybe he just hasn’t found a way to do it. On the other hand, it’d only be a one-story drop—only a couple bones, at most, it’s not exactly easy to coordinate a fall so that you’d fall with your skull straight down, and besides, they have a _lawn_ , the damn grass would break his fall anyway—

He groans, rubs at his eyes. He turns his face down into the pillow. The pressure on his eyes helps the headache a minimal amount.

The door creaks open. So does Law’s one eye that isn’t drowning in the pillow. He can vaguely make out the shape of—not Cora, it’s too short to be him, and anyway he’d have _knocked—_

Crocodile. Has to be, given the lack of manners and (comparatively) short stature. 

Law turns his head back down into his pillow. He would give _anything_ to be anywhere else right now.

Crocodile’s steps across the room are not soft like Cora’s—he seems to put his entire weight into each step, making even the quietest floorboards groan softly with effort. 

“G’t out,” Law mumbles into the pillow, but Crocodile still moves to sit where Cora had been a few hours ago. Law sits up, then, pulling the duvet to the side, gritting his teeth at the brightness of the room. 

“I _said,_ get the _fuck_ out of my room,” Law snarls, looking Crocodile straight in the eyes. He doesn’t get up, just meets his gaze as flatly as ever. He’s leaned over, elbows on his knees, wearing one of Cora’s t-shirts and sweats. They sit there, stock-still for a few moments, until Crocodile reaches up for a cigar that isn’t there, abandoning the motion in favor of resting his chin on his hand.

“You look like shit, kid,” is the first thing out of his mouth. 

“Really,” Law says, “who would have thought. It’s not like I tried to kill myself or anything.”

There is no sharp intake of breath, no tensing up, no real reaction to the admission. Figures. He’s probably seen worse, all things considered—hell, he’s probably _done_ worse. 

“Listen, I’m not going to rag on you about how that was a stupid thing to do. Or about how you need to get up and face this like a man. I’m not _entirely_ heartless, despite what you think. I’m not going to say anything about how Cora’s been worried sick about you, either,” and Law can’t help the flinch, “because you already know. You’re a smart kid.” 

There’s another moment where they just sit, Crocodile blinking lazily like dealing with mentally ill teenagers and their breakdowns is what he does on his days off. Law steels himself for whatever might come next—or tries to, at least, because he doesn’t know what to expect anyway. If Crocodile tries to hug him, he won’t be accountable for what happens. 

“I’m not going to ask if you want to talk about it, either,” Crocodile finally says, “but if you need to get anything off your chest… I ain’t exactly a delicate flower. Pretty sure I can handle anything you throw at me.” He smiles, sharp as a knife, and Law feels his shoulders slump, the tension in his back fizzling out into nothing.

He doesn’t say anything, looking down at his hands wound into the duvet. The spot he’s been picking at on and off for the past years stares back at him. There’s a comfortable familiarity in the way his short fingernails scrape over it, and though Crocodile clearly notices, he doesn’t call attention to it.

“Do you have _any_ fucking idea what it’s like? Having—having a piece of shit like _him_ after you?” Law starts, the bitten-down nail of his thumb finding purchase in the scab, anger and bile burning hot in his stomach. “Not even because he wants to kill you, he just thinks you’d be the easiest to groom into his, fucking, _successor_ or whatever the hell. Shit, if he were just trying to kill me it’d be _easier_ ,” he laughs, humorlessly, throat drier than sand. The scab comes loose with a sharp sting, and he wipes off the blood slowly emerging in his t-shirt. 

He looks at the ceiling. The bare white seems to be mocking him. 

“I don’t remember what my father looked like,” he realizes. Sure, he remembers bits and pieces, how he’d point at textbook pictures and explain the diagrams, how his beard was always a touch too rough when he hugged him, but his face is long since gone from Law’s memory. “It’s always been either Doffy or Cora.” 

He scratches at his hand again. The difference in texture between his patches and the rest of his skin leaves him eager to even it out, scratch loose the edges of the raised scar tissue and peel it off.

“Hah,” he huffs, “great way to grow up, huh. Your family dies, you’re stuck with _Doflamingo Donquixote_ looking after you for years, and the only fucking way you get out of there at all is because _you’re literally dying_. And then he shoots the only person you’ve ever trusted, the only person who thought to get you _real help_ , and, oh yeah, did I mention the _dying_ thing? Thinking you won’t live past the next three years really kind of _fucks you up_ ,” and his voice cracks and he’s burying his face in his hands trying to stop the tears before they start, gritting his teeth like he’s biting through stone. 

He breathes in, out, each heavier than the last, trying to loosen up the knot in his throat. 

“And then the motherfucker gets out of prison not two years into his sentence. So yeah. Mental health’s doing great, what with the whole,” he gestures weakly at nothing, “everything. And knowing me, I’ve just set myself up for another flare-up of the twenty-something diseases my body’s graced me with.” He laughs, again, because what else can he do? His eyes are still stinging, but fuck if he’s going to cry in front of _Crocodile._ Who doesn’t say anything, thank God.

“It’d be a whole less complicated if I wasn’t here at all.” He says, after a bit, looking up at Crocodile again. “For everyone. Cora wouldn’t have to deal with my whole mess. Doffy would have to find some other unlucky bastard to take over when he’s dead. No one would have to deal with a doctor who gets breakdowns in the middle of treating someone.” Each word slots comfortably into place in the empty room. 

Crocodile just looks at him, his hand reaching for pockets that aren’t there in the sweats. He curses softly when he realizes, but turns back to Law rather than standing up and getting a cigar, even if he obviously seems to need one. 

“Kid,” he says, folding his arms, “how much are you willing to bet that Rocinante would do something stupid if you weren’t here?”

Law blinks. 

“Sure, there’d be a lot more of the bumbling around and all, too, but the man _adores_ you. If you died… I would _not_ want to be in his line of fire. And if I were Doflamingo, I’d be running for the hills.” He smiles, this time softer than Law’s ever seen him smile except when he’s with Cora. It’s weird. 

“Do you know how many cases of hospital arson he almost committed for you?” Crocodile says fondly, not a hint of flat sarcasm in his voice.

“He _what?_ ” Law says, all other thoughts chased away. 

“He told me a while back. Apparently a few of the hospitals you went to refused treatment at first. Then there’d be… _words_ between Rocinante and whatever unlucky sap was in charge, and then there’d be no problems, plus a lot fewer canisters of gasoline smuggled into the basement. Quite a sweet story, really.” Crocodile smirks, lets his hand rest between them on the bed. 

“I think you’re the only one who’d call that _sweet_ ,” Law says, but still can’t help the small twinge of warmth he feels, even through the exhaustion and disbelief.

“The point is,” Crocodile continues, “he would do a lot of illegal, not to mention _immoral,_ things to keep you around. Thinking about what he’d be willing to do if you _died…_ speaking frankly, it scares me. And I doubt you would want him going down that path either.”

Law pauses, looking down at his lap. The spot on his hand’s still bleeding slightly. He wipes it in the covers, still thinking.

Living for Cora’s sake… doesn’t seem that bad, actually. He’ll still need to work his way up from _surviving_ to _living_ first, but he might get there eventually. 

He takes Crocodile’s hand, hesitant. He wipes away at his eyes with his other hand, looking up at the man with a smirk.

“Since when were you such a stickler for legality?” He asks, even as he can feel the tears still stinging at the corners of his eyes.

“Well, let’s just say I’ve come to realize some laws are important.” Crocodile grins, and _God_ Law can’t help the dumb fucking laughter bubbling up at the _stupidest damn joke_ he’s ever heard in his life. Crocodile won’t stop grinning, either, the motherfucker, looking as proud as can be of the joke. 

“Fuck off,” he says through the messy blend of laughter and teary hiccups, and pulls the piece of shit in for a hug. And then smacks the pillow in his face afterwards, for good measure.

**Author's Note:**

> law can have little a step-dad-son bonding moment. as a treat.  
> also this doesnt really help the whole menthol eelness thing Largely because that isnt how it works but it sure is a step to law getting some help. croc gets him a therapist for christmas because what use is your dad dating a rich criminal if you dont get some benefits from it as well  
> feel free to shoot me a message on tumblr at 27thfirefly!


End file.
